Moments of Clarity
by Sleepandsheeps
Summary: Many people lost things in the second wizarding war: family members, friends, innocence, faith, courage, and so much more. Hermione Granger and Draco Malfoy are two of the ones who lost the most. This is their story of life after war.
1. King Cross's Station

Disclaimer :: The following is a work of fan fiction based on the popular series Harry Potter created by the wonderful JK Rowling. No offense is intended towards JK Rowling or her work. However, this fan fiction is 100% written by me unless otherwise indicated.

**CHAPTER ONE: KING'S CROSS STATION**

Hermione Granger got off the bus, carefully setting the heavy suitcase she had in her hand down on to the asphalt ground. King's Cross Station loomed in front of her with its singular clock tower and massive structure. All around, people rushed past the young witch. She, however, stood still. She had no destination to speak of. But she needed one, didn't she? Everyone needs to go somewhere. Does it matter where she goes as long as she is not just standing still?

"Come on, Hermione." She whispered to herself. "You can do this."

Taking a deep breath, she grabbed her suitcase and entered King's Cross Station. Her mind was empty of anything save for the plan that she had concocted several weeks ago. Well, it wasn't exactly a plan per se. Originally, she was going to go to King's Cross Station, look at the train routes, and choose the train with a final destination that was farthest away from London. Once she gets to her destination, she would find an adequate lodging area and continue her planning from there. Admittedly, it wasn't a spectacular plan but it was at least a plan.

However when she got to the ticket booth, Hermione didn't know what to say to the ticket lady. After a few moments of awkward silence where the ticket lady patiently waited and Hermione stuttered with frustration, she decided to walk away and take a seat at one of the many waiting areas at King's Cross Station. As a woman who always relied on extensive and careful planning, winging it was a rather difficult task. How did Harry and Ron make it seem so easy? She just wanted to buy a train ticket to somewhere and already she was having anxiety issues from not having a concrete plan. She didn't know where she was going or for what purpose and it frustrated her more than she would like to admit.

Was it without purpose though?

As Hermione pondered on her thoughts, people moved about the station. Some sauntered slowly about, some waited in chairs like she did, and others rushed about in a mad dash to catch their trains and reach their desired destination. While there were others who waited as she did, she couldn't help but wonder if they were going through the same thing she was going through.

Logically, she knew the answer. But she couldn't help but wonder if they had fought a war, witnessed the unconceivable deeds of humans, and lived to tell the tale. And if they did somehow survive it, she wanted to know how they survived life after war? Although the second wizarding war was still fresh in her mind and carved into her flesh for life, she was not curious about that type of war. She was referring to the war one have with oneself.

Hermione didn't know how long she stayed in that seat. Time was no longer a constant flow. If anything, it has been rather slow. She didn't know how to explain it really. While everyone is going about living his or her lives, it seemed that her world had slowed down tremendously. Nothing mattered to her anymore. Even if she had previous plans, she could sit here in this seat at this station for hours and not even notice. Nothing mattered, remember?

Two hours and twenty-six minutes after she sat down, Hermione Granger snapped out of her daze as the person on her right vacated their seat. That was when she finally noticed him. Sitting a seat away from her was a tall and lanky young man with white blonde hair. He was dressed formally in a dark suit and had no suitcases or other belongings apart from a heavy green scarf that he wrapped around his neck in several layers. Judging from his sitting posture, it looked like he has been there for a while and had no plans to leave any time soon. He didn't notice her at all, so preoccupied with his book she presumed, and she took a moment to look at the boy.

When she last saw him at the Battle of Hogwarts, Draco Malfoy looked quite ill with dark circles under his eyes and a grey tinge to his usual pale skin. Given the ordeals he had been through, it was no wonder he looked the way he did. Half a year has already passed since Voldemort's death and it seemed like he's doing better. While there are still dark shadows under his eyes and his skin was still pale as ever, he seemed better. Healthier. That's… She didn't know how to feel about that. After all, her feelings for the boy were more colored than most. Hermione scoffed at the thought. Colored is an understatement.

"It's not nice to stare," the familiar voice said.

As if feeling her stare, Malfoy's book suddenly snapped shut and the silence that followed as he turned to meet her gaze with his gray eyes was deafening. Hermione's body tensed. All the years of angry hateful insults thrown about via intense glaring, scowls, and shouting matches had all escalated to this one moment of dead air. The war was over. Voldemort was dead.

"What are you doing here?" Hermione asked when it was clear the blond had nothing to say.

Arrogant purebloods like Malfoy would hate to be caught loitering about the Muggle side of King's Cross Station so the sight of him leisurely reading at the waiting area puzzled her. At her question, Malfoy's gray eyes roamed the station. When he finished inspecting the area, his gaze returned to hers and he slowly shrugged as if unsure of his answer.

"I just am." He said. "What about you?"

The lack of animosity in his response greatly disturbed Hermione. Where was the haughty spoiled brat she was so used to confronting? Why was he being… civil? Even the mere thought of Draco Malfoy, heir to the pureblood fanatical family, being civil made her paranoid with fear. Was he here for her? Was he planning on causing harm to the people at King's Cross? Hermione instinctively made a grab for her wand inside her coat's pocket.

But when her fingers touched air, the fear and anger that had suddenly boiled inside her dissipated. What was the point? The war already ended. Voldemort was dead. She did her part in the war. If purebloods like Malfoy wanted to continue with the disillusioned monster's life work then let them be. She did her part. Asking her to continue, damaged as she was, was too much. So she unclenched her fist and returned her hand to her lap. Staring at her hands, Hermione shrugged as well.

"I'm just here," Hermione replied.

Malfoy raised an eyebrow at her answer but said nothing. Instead, he leaned back against his chair, put his head in his hands, and let out a long tired sigh. The loud movement he made caught Hermione's attention and she watched him, entranced. She had witnessed more emotions crossing his face in those few seconds than years of going to school with him. But as she looked at the young boy, she realized she was witnessing a different set of emotions. While spiteful anger and utter repulsion shaped his face back in school, the Draco she saw now had nothing but controlled sorrow and aching tiredness. If anything, he seemed more vulnerable than ever.

"Are you…" He paused then, unsure of what to say. "Are you going too?"

His voice, muffled by his hands, sounded almost sad and resigned.

"I don't know what you're talking about." She answered. Yet as she said this, Hermione's left hand slowly went to the handle of her suitcase to secure its position at her side in case something happened. Something like the pureblood fanatic going berserk in a station full of muggles. "I'm not going anywhere."

"Your suitcase says something else," Malfoy retorted. She glanced at him and saw him peeking at her through the openings he made with his fingers. Hermione said nothing. Resignedly, Malfoy took in a deep breath and straightened his posture so that he could fully face her. "You're going somewhe—"

"Where I'm going is none of your business Malfoy." Hermione interrupted, irritated at the boy's insistence. Who was he to start speculating on her actions? If anything, she should be asking him questions. "Now if you don't mind, piss off."

Just like that, the ugly disgust that Hermione was so familiar with returned to the boy's face and she almost laughed when she saw it. Scorpions will always be scorpions.

"Since when did the muggleborn princess turn into such a bitch?" Malfoy hissed. "What's wrong with you, Granger? Where's the kindness that you usually exhibit-"

"And since when did the pureblood fanatic whose only purpose in life is to kill and maim muggleborns let himself be surrounded by such dirty blood?" Hermione hissed back. From the corner of her eyes, she could tell that their raised voices were attracting attention but venom was on the tip of her lips and she could not swallow it. Instead, she spitted it out at the only person who deserved it. "What are you really doing here, Malfoy? Planning to torture some helpless muggle for fun again?"

Jaw clenching and unclenching, Malfoy's expression said all that she needed to know. She was pissing him off and she actually got a kick out of it.

"Stop." He said.

She dismissed it.

"Wait, I'm sorry. You're on a totally different level now, aren't you? You're a Death Eater. A fanatical Death Eater who kills with purpose, right? Was that your justification? Tell me, are you still killing muggles?"

"Stop."

There was that word again. It was spoken in a softer tone this time and it was much softer than her harsh loud voice. She could almost recognize the pleading tone attached to that word but she didn't care. Why should she?

"Did your father send you out on a Death Eater assignment today? Is that why you're out and about? Is daddy dearest training you to become the next Dark Lord? Oh you would like that, wouldn't you, becoming the next Voldemo—"

"Stop!" Malfoy shouted.

His clenched fists slammed against the arm of the uncomfortably hard chair he was sitting on.

"No!" Hermione screamed back.

Before she knew what she was doing, Hermione's hand went forward and slapped Malfoy right in the face. Caught unaware, Malfoy had no time to react and the force of her slap whipped his head to the side in a jarring manner. When Malfoy turned back to glare at her with an anger that matched her own, Hermione could see the split lip that her smack had caused and the blood that formed at the corner.

Appalled at what she had done, Hermione glanced down at her hands and realized for the first time that it was shaking terribly. In order to control herself again, Hermione got up from her seat and grabbed her suitcase. As she turned, her eyes met Malfoy's and she stared at him for a moment. There he was, the epitome of evil, looking like a lost dog because she just slapped him. But who knew for sure if he deserved it or not. In her mind, after all the things he put her through in school and during the war he deserved whatever ridicule he would be put through. There was no doubt about it.

"Granger…" Malfoy started. Anger and annoyance resonated in his voice.

"Don't you dare…" Hermione whispered. Her voice was now trembling as much as her hands. "Don't you dare tell me to stop when you never listened to the pleas of the countless muggles you killed! You hated me, always have, and all because of my blood. Don't you dare sit there and beg me to treat you like a human being when all you've done is spat at my feet every time I walked by."

"I merely wanted to know where you were going," was all Malfoy said before he wiped the blood off his lips.

"Away." Hermione replied back immediately. "I'm going away because people like you have made it their life's goals to kick me out and in all honesty I'm bloody tired of fighting it. My childhood was spent fighting your prejudices and now I…" She paused, trying to find the right words and failing. Tears welling up blinded her vision but she didn't seem to notice it. The look on Malfoy's face, however, indicated he did. When she spoke again, Hermione's voice broke. "I don't give a shit. You want your world? You can fucking have it. Good day Malfoy... And good bye."

With that, Hermione swiveled around and walked away. Like at the start of the day, she still didn't have a clue where she was going. But now she found a purpose and that was good enough. She heard Malfoy shout something back at her as she walked off but she didn't care enough to listen. She spent years listening to people like him and she was done. With him, people like him, and the world that he believed was his.

The British wizarding world wouldn't hear anything of Hermione Granger, the smartest witch of her age and friend of Harry Potter, for another three years.

_**AN ::**__ Hi there, this is SleepandSheeps. This is the first chapter of my new fanfic called Moments of Clarity starring Hermione Granger and Draco Malfoy. I hoped you liked it. Thanks for reading and please stay tune for the next chapter. :D_


	2. National Library of France

Disclaimer: The following is a work of fan fiction based on the popular series Harry Potter created by the wonderful JK Rowling. No offense is intended towards JK Rowling or her work. However, this fan fiction is 100% written by me unless otherwise indicated.

**CHAPTER 2: NATIONAL LIBRARY OF FRANCE**

The dream that had vividly imprinted itself in his mind just moments before was now beginning to dissipate, confusing him with its hazy edges. Voices that had launched an attack on him were promptly receding, the altogether gentleness, scratchiness, and shrillness of the sounds fading away as other less foreign sounds burst forth. Light, sharp and bright, burned into the recess of his mind and he gasped in pain at the unexpected encounter.

Draco Malfoy woke up with a start.

His shirt, damp with sweat, clung to his body uncomfortably as he jerked himself up from the bed. The frantic motion oddly reminded him of a scared animal facing its worst enemy. The exertion of his hypersensitive mind usually did that these days. But he would like to think that it was his pretense at calmness that differentiated him from a wild beast. That even though his breathing was labored, they came in lengths of measured gasps that imitated normal breathing. As normal as he could control it anyway, he told himself.

Scanning the perimeter of the barely lit chambers, Draco absentmindedly clenched and unclenched his wand hand. There lying in the palm of his hand was the hawthorn wand that had chosen him back when he was a mere boy of eleven. For a long time, the feel of the pliant hawthorn brought him a soothing touch he could not find elsewhere. For a long time, it was his pride and joy. It was his salvation. Now, ten years later, it was only a burden. Although the elation he felt using the wand was still there, it has been overpowered by feelings of fear, rage, and general helplessness. Magic was no longer appealing.

Tossing the wand aside, Draco got off the bed and began to get ready for the morning. Back at Hogwarts, a rumor got around suggesting he was such a spoiled brat that elves had to get him ready each morning or else he couldn't function. Whoever started the rumor was not wrong. For as long as Draco remembered, his father always had an elf tending to his every need whether it was waking him up in the morning, making him breakfast, or planning what he was wearing for the day. His father wanted to cultivate the concept of ownership, authority, and superiority in Draco from a young age. In a way, the man did succeed in that aspect. Draco spent many years practicing the art of pureblood superiority and actually reveled in it. But that was no longer true. Needless to say, after the Dark Lord's occupation of Malfoy Manor three years prior, owning an elf was the last thing on his mind.

Has it really been three years since the Dark Lord's demise? To Draco, it seemed only months have passed. Everything in the last three years has been a blur. The repetitive days where his sole purpose was to wake up and attend trials merged together with his required attendance at private business meetings to discuss the future of Malfoy Corporations. There was no in between.

He did remember her though.

He remembered seeing Hermione Granger for the first time since the Battle of Hogwarts at the most unlikely place. Having been frustrated at the prying of Ministry officials wanting to know his every move night and day, Draco had escaped to the only place he knew they wouldn't follow. He did not want to stray far from the magical community but staying in the manor that haunted him was also unappealing. So in the end, he had chosen King's Cross Station. How he ended up sitting right next to the witch was something he could not explain. He was so engrossed in his book that he didn't notice her when she came. Perhaps it was he who took the seat after her and did not recognize the witch. She was wearing wretched muggle clothing after all.

That was the first and last time he saw her.

He wasn't surprised when he later learned she had disappeared. Just like that and without telling anyone, Hermione Granger left the wizarding world and never came back. It didn't take him long to realize that he was the last magical person she saw before her disappearance. She never said good bye to her disgustingly vile friends Potter and Weasley or else they wouldn't have advertised ads in the Daily Prophet or made public announcements for the reward of finding her. No, Draco was the last person to see her and he kept that fact to himself. Given the Ministry's scrutiny into the Malfoy family's affairs, he could not risk being the main suspect into a missing person's investigations especially when the missing person was Hermione Granger. So he stayed quiet. He never told anyone of his encounter with Granger or the subsequent argument they had. Three years have passed since then. As far as he knew, the Potter boy and the Weasley family were no longer looking for their friend. Her whereabouts and safety were not his concerns.

"Draco?"

A knock on the door and his mother's voice brought Draco out of his reverie and he quickly put on his shirt and rushed to the door. Outside in the hall waiting was his smiling mother. Although her beauty was emphasized by the clean cut attire and neatly styled tresses of blonde hair, his mother still looked quite weary to him. A full year of worry and anxious fear had deprived the woman of her appetite and sleep and the results of such deprivation showed even after three years of recuperation.

"Good morning," Draco greeted before giving his mother a kiss on both cheeks.

"Good morning, my dear." Smiling, his mother took a moment to adoringly caress his face. "Pansy is here to see you. She is waiting in the drawing room. I could have sent one of the maids but I wanted to check up on you first."

Draco did not bother to hide his frown.

Ever since the Dark Lord tasked him with killing Dumbledore, his relationship with Pansy slowly deteriorated. It was not her fault he could no longer confide in her the same way he did before the war began. The ordeals with the Dark Lord had changed him and it was his fault for wanting to push her away. After the war, Pansy has been ever so persistent when it came to matters of her heart. She still has affections for Draco, affections she expressed repeatedly through letters, but he could not bring himself to say the same. The truth was he no longer cared. Whatever they had back in school was no longer valid now because the both of them have changed so much. Of course, deep down he knew he had changed more than her. While she was protected back at Hogwarts and living the life as a privileged pureblood, Draco had a different type of experience. Reconnecting with her was something he did not find appealing.

"You got along quite well with her before." His mother stated. "What happened?"

He stared at his mother. The nonchalant stoic look on her face told him she did not view her question as problematic. For her, it was a genuine question a mother wanted to ask to gain some knowledge on her son's thoughts. Her inquisitiveness and concern for his well-being was adoring. But he knew at this point in time, it was also toxic. Whether or not she knew it was another matter entirely.

"Things simply changed," said Draco. "I am actually on my way out right now. Please tell her to leave. I'll see her later when I can."

"Draco…" His mother put a hand on his arm to stop him from turning away and gave it a gentle squeeze. Her eyes, usually piercing in its gaze, were filled with a sadness he knew all too well. "I don't like you going out all the time. Your father and I are very concerned. "

"Mother, you don't have to be concerned for me." Draco said. He gently pushed her hand off his arm and gave a tight smile. The hypocritical words of his mother were beginning to irk him. Was she serious? "You weren't concerned about me before."

"I was. I did. I…" His mother stopped herself from saying anything further. When she spoke again, the tone of determination in her voice was strong enough that it almost convinced him. "I protected you as best as I could."

Was it really protection? The doubt that washed over him was something he did not show as he looked at his mother. In all honesty, he knew his mother tried her best. Between all the shouting and cowering, torture spells and death threats, his mother did everything she could. But if both his parents were not so dead set on bringing about a new order to the wizarding world, lives would not have been lost. Children wouldn't have been taken away from their parents, teenagers would not be forced to go to war, and people wouldn't have died. Did she not get that?

To Draco, believing in the words of the Dark Lord was a mistake his parents should never have made. They told him it was for the glory of purebloods everywhere, the future of the wizarding world, and the salvation of an entire race of pureblood wizards and witches. For a long time, he actually believed them. But after having seen lives lost and ruined, he no longer held the same values. His parents can continue to live under their false pretense of pureblood supremacy and think the second wizarding war and the Dark Lord never happened. But he could not.

"I know," he said, gritting his teeth. "But you could have tried harder."

The change in his mother's demeanor was something Draco has seen many times before. Within seconds, Narcissa Malfoy lost all pretenses of steel determination and arrogance. With fidgeting hands and downcast eyes, she simply looked like a scared lost woman in face of a threat she knew she could not eliminate. She looked like she was staring at the Dark Lord himself and it hurt to see her look at him in this manner. Did she realize he was not the Dark Lord? Did she remember that he would never hurt her intentionally? Or has the war changed her so much that she fears her own son? The transformation of his mother resonated somewhere deep within him and he could not bear to look at her.

"I…" His mother took a deep breath. "What more could I have done?"

Draco gazed into her eyes for a second before turning and walking away from her. The unspoken words of her son barely registered on her face before disappointment completely overwhelmed the old woman. He didn't look back to see her muffle a cry of despair and loss. He didn't want to. Hermione Granger might have had the courage to leave the wizarding world for good and establish a new life elsewhere. But Draco couldn't afford such luxuries. He had to stay and face the consequences of what he has done. He wasn't a coward like she was. He was a Malfoy.

* * *

Draco did not remember when it happened. He could say that one day he was a pureblood fanatic and suddenly everything changed. He could say that but it would not be true. So when did it happen? Between all the years under the tutelage of his father and the seven years at Hogwarts, there were many events that could have influenced him. But what was the beginning and what was the end? Was it considered the beginning when mudblood Granger beat him in Charms? Was it the end when the Dark Lord's body fell lifeless to the ground? Or was _that_ the beginning? The start has been convoluted with the end, mixing and matching together until he couldn't differentiate between the two.

Perhaps it was the moment he found out the Dark Lord was a half-blood that made him question his loyalties to the cause. How dare that nose-less man want to purge the wizarding world of dirty blood if he himself was filthy to the core? The hypocrisy of the Dark Lord was enough to make Draco cringe in second hand embarrassment. But he could not deny the fact that the half-blood's power was the reason people feared him. Although his parents and purebloods like them admired the visionary qualities of the Dark Lord and his desire to make their fantasies come true, Draco also knew a part of their admiration came from the fear of dying a terrible death. Oh yes, he came to familiarize himself with the Dark Lord's intimidating personality first hand.

Perhaps repeatedly being exposed to the Dark Lord's just but cruel punishments was the catalyst that brought about a change of heart in him. Fear and intimidation along with charismatic persuasion could do a lot to a person's mind given the right circumstances. Draco had no doubt that participating in Death Eater activities and witnessing murders upon murders of defenseless people who screamed for mercy were the perfect situations for such change. Not to mention, the dreadful isolation he had been subjected to at Malfoy Manor had given him much needed time to think. He thought about a lot of things and many of them were subjects he tried not to remember after the war. But the racism that he has witnessed and participated in was seared into his memories and kept popping up in the back of his mind every time he thought he was doing well. It was a nightmare and knowing that he was the last person to see Hermione Granger before she disappeared made it even worse.

Hermione Granger.

His thoughts always went back to her for some reason. Perhaps it was all the countless times Hermione Granger bested him in all subject matters at school that made him question the validity of his father's words. If purebloods were superior in every way, why did the mudblood excel in all things magical and otherwise? It wasn't as if Draco didn't try to beat her. Merlin knew he did. While Draco was proud of his achievements as a salutatorian, his father made sure he knew what Granger obtaining the valedictorian honor meant to purebloods. She was a vile creature, his father would say. She doesn't deserve her position or her magic. But was that really true? If she didn't deserve her magic because her blood was tainted, why was she able to successfully cast spells he couldn't cast even if he tried? Rumor has it that everyone in Dumbledore's Army knew how to cast a Patronus charm. What does it mean for Draco if he, a product of pureblood progeny, failed to summon a Patronus? Did that make him weak and did it make her any less dirty?

He still didn't know.

"Fait attention où tu marches!" Someone yelled.

Draco Malfoy snapped out of his daze as someone pushed against him. All at once, a cacophony of deafening voices, buzzing, and horns came to life and he cringed as he looked around at his surroundings. He had blacked out again. That much, he was sure of. The last thing he remembered doing was going to the Ministry of Magic for his meeting with the newly appointed Minister of Magic. On his way to the Minister's office, he was stopped by one of his father's many associates who inquired about his parents' welfare. He of course dismissed the associate with kind but sharp words and continued on with his venture. It had been early morning then. He had only left Malfoy Manor an hour before.

It was no longer early morning now and he was not at the Ministry of Magic.

Based on the sound of the romance language being murmured back and forth between passers-by, he knew he was in some part of France if not in Paris itself. But that was not important. What was important was how he was going to get back. He could apparate home, but if he was right and he was somewhere in France then inter-continental apparition was something he did not want to do. Apparition becomes more difficult the farther the distance and he did not want to risk splinching himself.

Across from him, four vertical towers loomed forbiddingly. For a split second, he wondered how muggles could have built such high towers without the aid of magic. But then his eyes took in the structure of the towers and frowned at the odd rectangular shapes of them. Where was the aesthetic in that? Muggles confused him. But the more Draco looked, the more he thought the beacon-like markers resembled an open-faced book. It could be his imagination and lack of knowledge in regard to Muggle culture but if he wanted to go to a library in France, this was the place to go.

With that thought in mind, he continued walking and warily entered the Muggle compound. Why he chose to enter this gigantic building with strangely placed reflective walls was something he could not explain. Why did he choose this one instead of the numerous smaller and less intimidating boutiques spread about on the streets all around him? Perhaps it was curiosity that led him to where he was. He didn't quite know. But Draco kept his wand within reach in case anything happened.

Once inside, he quickly found himself in the public reading room. Reading posts upon reading posts surrounded the room and many people populated those posts. The sight of these Muggles frustratingly reading through books and jotting down notes reminded Draco of the Hogwarts Library and he chuckled at that. The similarity between Muggle students and wizarding students were not lost on him. He quickly grabbed a random book and sat down at an empty reading table pretending to look busy. The chair was mildly uncomfortable but it would have to do for his temporary stay there.

So what happened? What had happened while he blacked out? How long? This wasn't the first time Draco Malfoy blacked out. No, it had been a gradual progression of black outs that made him notice the existence of them. After his isolation at Malfoy Manor, the Battle of Hogwarts, and his community volunteer work at the Ministry of Magic, the black outs became more frequent, more sporadic, and very, very long. When he woke up from such black outs, he often did not remember what had happened or what he did, for there was no doubt he did things while being unware of his own actions. If other people questioning something he knew he didn't do were any indications, he definitely did things. Going all the way to France was one of them. Now… If only he knew the way to the French Ministry of Magic so that he could get a portkey an-

"Hermione!"

The whisper was anything but loud and yet Draco heard it clearly as if the source of the voice had used the amplifying charm. Jerking his head around, he searched the space and watched as a man in his late twenties hurriedly walked to the other side of the room. Did he hear the man right? Was he calling for Hermione? With his luck, Hermione was a popular Muggle name and the Hermione the man was looking for was nothing more than a simpleton. But he couldn't help the curiosity and anxiety that bubbled up inside him. Draco kept his gaze on the man and sat there frozen in his seat at the unexpected sight before him.

There sitting at a table several yards away from him was Hermione Granger slaving over an assortment of articles, books, and journals spread about her desk. Upon hearing her name, she looked up and gave a disapproving glare at her male friend. The arches of her furrowed brows, the sound of her shrill voice, and the neatly styled plait of her bushy brown hair were so familiar to him that he felt a wave of nostalgia hit him. Yes, Hermione Granger was sitting several yards from him. He had no doubts about it. As she reprimanded her friend for possibly shouting across the reading room with a smack to his shoulder, Draco's arm twitched. It has been many years since she first smacked his face but he still felt it even now. Back then, he was too spoiled to know the meaning of physical pain. That was no longer true.

Draco didn't know how long he sat there watching the witch interact with her friend. It could have been minutes or hours. All around him, people came and went. But the three of them stayed where they were and minded their own business. Or at least, they did. He, on the other hand, was blatantly watching Granger and did not try to hide it. The more he watched her interaction with her friend, the more he couldn't help but wonder how these past three years have fared for her.

Did she retreat back to the Muggle world and traveled a little bit before settling in France? Or did she already know her destination when they encountered each other at King's Cross Station that day and just didn't bother to tell him or her friends about it? If she didn't know where she would eventually settle down, how was she so fluent in French? The witch was talking to her friend as if she had spoken French her entire life. But who was he to speculate? He knew nothing about the girl except for the nature of her magic and her blood. During his time at Hogwarts, he did his best to stay clear from her and every comment he heard about her usually revolved around her dirty blood and intelligent mind. Of course he didn't know if she spoke fluent French.

When it looked like Granger was getting up to leave, Draco shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Was that it? Was he going to let her go without saying anything? How many years has this woman tortured him? From the way she excelled at everything she did, the way her dirty blood tainted everything around her, the way her very existence made him question the validity of his own? Just how much longer was Draco supposed to let this woman enter his dreams uninvited and turn them into nightmares?

Reaching into his coat's pocket, Draco grasped his wand and watched carefully as Granger unsuspectingly packed all her bags and said good-bye to her friend. As Granger took off in the direction of the lined bookshelves in the back of the reading room, Draco shot up from his chair and quickly followed her. Months of learning how to sneak around at Hogwarts and pretending to be invisible back at Malfoy Manor has given him more than enough experience to stalk the witch without being noticed. Some Muggles did look up and stare as he passed by but he gave them no mind and continued on his way.

He found her absentmindedly browsing a shelf of books in the adjacent room. She still had several books that she was supposed to be putting back in her arms but she obviously got distracted. As he blatantly stared at her, Draco found himself wondering what he was doing in a French muggle library stalking Hermione Granger. Honestly, what possessed him to follow her like this? Exactly what would he say if she happened to turn around and see him there? Hey Granger, fancy meeting you here in _muggle_ France. What a ridiculous idea. But in the depths of his mind, Draco knew he had to do it. He had to see her and talk to her again even if that meant she would curse him out like she always did.

Why?

He wanted to know what she has been doing all these years. But his desire to know made him uneasy and conflicted. If she has been doing well the last three years, he cannot say he would be happy for the witch. How could she be happy when he was so miserable? Why did she deserve to be happy? Because she fought for the good side and won? So what? Did that mean due to his choice of alliance, he was fated to be miserable for the rest of his life? And if he found out she wasn't happy, Draco wouldn't know what he would do because ultimately it was he and pureblood elitists like him that drove her to leave the wizarding world. It was his fault she left. It was his fault she was unhappy. How could he live with himself knowing that?

In his mind, the happiness of those who suffered for the cause was not as important as Hermione Granger's happiness. He knew her. He went to class with her, he lived in the same castle as her, and he had conversations with her even if they were just spiteful remarks thrown across a room. Even back in school, his mind was always preoccupied with how to beat Granger in whatever class she was excelling in, how to make her feel as miserable as he did, and everything in between. She was real to him more so than anyone else. And after everything they've been through? Draco would feel somewhat vindicated if he knew she has been faring well the last several years. If he found out she was still happy, regardless of whether she willingly or forcefully left the wizarding world, he would feel less burdened by the fact that he might have ruined her life for good. Or so he hoped.

Before Draco could say anything to alert her to his presence, Granger put away a book that she had been looking at and turned around. Draco held his breath as the woman in front of him slowly trailed her eyes up from the floor. How would she react? Would she scream bloody murder and get away from him as quickly as possible? Would she be calm and collect about it? Or would she just hex the Merlin out of him and throw him to the muggle Aurors? The tune she was absentmindedly humming died on her lips as twinkling brown eyes caught Draco's gaze and held. For a moment, Draco thought she didn't recognize him. No emotion showed in her eyes as she stared at the boy who watched her get tortured by his crazy aunt.

But then as if Hermione was reading his mind, her brown eyes widened with something equaled to fear and she took a step back. Her grip on the books in her arms slackened and she had to lean on the bookshelf to her left for support. Her reaction to seeing him was not something he had ever imagined her reaction to be. He had expected anger or resentment or something else. But never fear. Since when did the great Hermione Granger, the brightest witch of her age, the heart of the golden trio, and best friend of the wizarding world's savior fear someone like him? She had nothing to fear.

"What are you doing here?" Granger asked. Her dark brown eyes quickly darted around the vicinity with full intentions of finding a way out of this mess. Her slightly shrill voice carried an air of confidence and anger that contrasted with the way she carried herself. Straightening her stance, Granger turned her eyes towards Draco and spoke with disdain. "How did you find me?"

Draco did not have an answer to her question. Simply telling her that it was a coincidence he found her in muggle Paris would not go over well. She threw quite a fit back then when she saw him at King's Cross Station three years ago. The damn witch even smacked him in the face. He stayed silent this time around, opting to survey the woman in front of him. Three years have passed and it seemed like nothing has changed with Hermione Granger.

Her hair was bushy as ever, her skin a healthy complexion, and she has gained some of the weight back from being on the run with Potter and Weasley. If anything, she had aged well. She certainly looked well in her flowing muggle clothing. The floral dress she wore accentuated her curves in a way wizarding robes never would and he couldn't help but admire her body in it. But as he scrutinized her further, he noticed that her fingers were slightly trembling and if he wasn't carefully studying her he wouldn't have realized it himself. He slowly trailed his eyes to her face and inwardly winced at the heat of rage that circled her brown eyes. Fear no longer controlled her.

"Answer me," she demanded, slowly drawing out her words for emphasis. "What are you doing here, Malfoy?"

"I just am," Draco replied. The familiarity of the answer was not lost on Granger. He knew the answer would irk her but he said it anyway. "What about you?"

As calmly as she could in her riled up state, Granger quickly but efficiently put the books in her arms back on the shelves where they belonged and turned back to look at Malfoy with a seething glare that would make normal men cower in fear. But he was not a normal man. He was a Malfoy. So even if she eyed him up and down as if questioning everything he stood for, he tried his best not to squirm and crumble under her gaze. If her previously trembling fingers were any indications, she was somewhat afraid of him and he had to use the information to his advantage if he wanted to survive this without suffering another slap to the face or worse. What is it about him and letting Granger smack the Merlin's ghost out of him every few years? Honestly…

"I'm going to say this once." Granger practically growled. Dripping with unexpressed anger, her tone brought him back to the present. "You do not belong here. I don't care why you're here. But it is best that you leave this place before I take matters into my own hands and blast you back to Scotland."

"I do not _belong_?" He narrowed his eyes at the insinuation hidden in her words. "What's tha—?"

"Don't pretend to be daft Malfoy, you're smarter than that." She interrupted. The condescending tone that suddenly laced Granger's voice with hate irked him to no end. It didn't help that a happy almost sadistic smirk contorted her face to the point where he wondered if she somehow lost her mind in the three years she's been gone. Or maybe it was the war that turned her. He could never tell. "You know exactly what I mean. Now get out. I will not have you wreak havoc here like you did your world."

"Watch your tone, Granger." Draco hissed out, grinding his teeth together so much that it was starting to hurt. His wand hand clenched and unclenched, partly because he wanted the assurance of his wand and partly because he had to do something or else he'll choke the witch in front of him. She was testing his saintly patience. "I simply lost my way. Your anger at me being in the muggle world is unwarranted."

Granger threw her head back and laughed at him. He narrowed his eyes.

"My, my. Whatever happened to Draco Malfoy?" She tilted her head to the side in a misguided mockery of his dear aunt. "Your anger is unwarranted, _muggle_ world, _muggle_ born, _muggle_ blah blah blah. Shut. Up. You know what you want to say, you're just afraid to say it. Are you a parrot now repeating things over and over again without fail? Lost your voice, have you? Or did you lose your mind?"

"Do not test my patience, Granger!"

"And do not test mine!"

The lax fingers of Draco's right hand twitched for one second and before Granger could even blink, the tip of his hawthorn wood wand was pointed right between her eyes. The calm and collected Granger quickly glanced at his hand gripping her left shoulder, at the sparks flickering at the point of the wand, and then back up at him. Her smirk got even wider at the sight and he faintly wonder if she's trying to make him snap. If that was the case, she was doing a heck of a job. The role reversal reminded him of 3rd year and as much as he wanted to laugh at the memory, he could not. He was at a loss as to how to continue because he did not expect such antagonism from the bookworm before him. It seemed that in the last three years, Hermione Granger was slowly brewing a cauldron of sheer bitterness and hatred towards people like him. Or was it just Bellatrix Lestrange and by extension the Malfoy Family or was it for all Death Eaters in general?

"I told you to watch your tongue." Draco said. His wand hand did not waver as he pointed it her. He wasn't planning to use it in any way but she didn't have to know that. "I mean it."

"What are you going to do?" Granger asked, unfazed by the wand targeting her. "Hex me? Torture me? Kill me? Wouldn't be the first time, would it? With Dumbledore and everything…"

Granger's voice trailed off, letting the words fall where it might in the recesses of Draco's dark soul. He tried to not react to her words. He really did. But just as everyone had flinched when he first called Granger a mudblood, Draco now flinched at the mention of Albus Dumbledore. Her words stirred a pool of memories he desperately tried to repress and Draco found his mind travelling back to that night four years prior. To Draco, that night was the worst night of his entire life. After it was said and done, he had performed unmentionable acts under the command of the Dark Lord because the latter wanted to punish him for disobedience. But that night was the catalyst that changed everything. Even now, exonerated for his crimes against the wizarding world, Draco still went back to that night during fits of restless sleep. When was the last time he had adequate undisturbed sleep because of Dumbledore's death? Granger's screams? His choices?

"I didn't kill Dumbledore." Draco said, grinding his teeth at the words as if he was trying to convince himself. "It wasn't my fault. It wasn't."

The proximity of their faces gave him a chance to look into Granger's eyes and he couldn't help the hostility that suddenly rose from within him. His grip on her left shoulder tightened and the tip of his wand was now sizzling. She didn't believe him. She never would. No one would. Why can't people understand that it was not his choice? That it was never his choice? It was either Dumbledore or his parents. He had no choice in the matter. Why couldn't they see that? He was not a monster. Not a killer. He had no choice.

"You're right," Granger drawled. The smirk on her face was no longer present but her eyes showed him no path to redemption. If anything, the sudden sorrow that had suddenly clouded her eyes was heart wrenching to look at. Draco held his breath. "It wasn't. But you could have saved them."

"I couldn't."

"You could have!" Granger's hand suddenly shot up and grabbed the wrist holding her shoulder and quickly shook him. "You could have but you didn't. If you didn't let the Death Eaters in, if you had just gone to him and asked for help, Dumbledore wouldn't have died. Those children could have been alive. The war would not have ended the way it did. If you had just made the right cho-"

"I made the right choice!" He shouted. Pushing Granger back against the bookshelf, Draco wrenched himself free from her grasp. She slammed against the shelf a little harder than he wanted her to but she didn't let out a gasp of pain. Instead, she just looked at him with such accusations in her eyes. He couldn't bear to look at her. "You weren't there. You don't know how it felt."

"I don't." Granger scoffed. "But you know what I do know?"

He stared at her, waiting for her to speak. She stared back at him, her chest raising and falling as she tried to catch her breath. Their argument was nowhere as intense as a duel to the death but it might have been for all the wounds and cuts their words caused. In the back of his mind, he knew he was letting his anger get the best of him. He could feel the magic within him boiling over with each accusation Hermione Granger shouted.

Who was she to judge him so? She did not know who he was, what he did, and under what circumstances he made his life choices. At first, he thought she out of all people would understand and forgive him for what he did. But she wasn't what he expected. Everyone at school always said she was the logical Muggleborn witch who was kind, caring, and overall a good person. After all the things she said to him, after that slap she gave him three years ago for no goddamn reason, was she really a good person? Yes she did fight for the winning side. But that doesn't mean anything. Did it?

"Well?" Draco snarled.

Before he could say anything else, the ground beneath him started to shake. It started out as small tremors that no one would have even noticed. But as the tremors grew in strength, the books on the shelves shuddered and shook with such an intensity it knocked Granger forward from where she was standing. The untapped magical powers circling the area where the two of them stood were growing at dangerous levels but Draco didn't notice. Or if he notice, he didn't care.

"Malfoy, get a hold of yourself." Granger said. She was unable to hide the panic in her voice. Her eyes quickly took in the sight of wooden shelves shaking and the ground breaking beneath them and turned back to the blond man losing control in front of her. "Malfoy!"

"Tell me what you know." He shouted undeterred.

"I know you were there when your bloody aunt tortured me!" She shrieked back as books ricocheted all over the place. In one corner, a spark of magic kindled a fire that immediately incinerated a pile of books. Whose magic now ran wild was no longer clear. He kept his gaze on the witch. "I know you watched and did nothing as I screamed and screamed on that floor! You did nothing! And it's your fault I am the way I am. Your fault!"

Draco Malfoy didn't remember anything else that happened next. The last thing he saw before he blacked out was a wall of fire burning with the heat of his anger and Granger standing in the middle of it screaming. He quickly wondered if he too was able to save her but didn't. And then…

Darkness.

* * *

Disoriented from the bright lights outside his bedroom window, he gave out a groan and twisted his body away to block out the vile rays. His attempts at returning to sleep, however, failed as sharp stabbing pain racked his body in numbing agony and he screamed out. Arms flailed in a dismal attempt to grasp something to hold on to but before his brain could even register where it hurt, the pain suddenly stopped. He panted, his fists on the yellow sheets around him clenching and unclenching in unison to his breaths. A light sheen of sweat decorated his rather pale skin and as his body caught the light, distinctive burn marks appeared all over the white expanse of his shirt. After a moment, he unclenched his fists from the sheets and reached up to brush through his hair in utter frustration.

Careful to not awaken another episode of mind numbing pain, he slowly rolled onto his back and propped himself on his elbows to inspect his surroundings. The bedroom he woke up in was not his. That much Draco was sure. He would never have something as disgusting as purple splash his walls, much less along with white polka dots. If he wasn't in such pain, he would have laughed at the idea. Purple walls with white polka dots painting the walls of Malfoy Manor? Oh how his ancestors would croak again and again at the horror.

Draco made a move to get up and out of the bed but the dull aching pains that reverberated across his body stopped him from doing so. Instead, he scooted up towards the head of the bed and leaned back against the pillow and the frame before checking himself for any injures. Everything on his body seemed perfectly attached and unmarked except his left arm. A burn mark of epic proportions stretched from the tips of his fingers to his upper arm. Although his arm ached with searing pain as if he got the wound several hours ago, the burn wound itself seemed several days old as if someone had used Dittany on him. Draco looked away from his flesh wound for a moment to look at the bedroom he was in.

Apart from the abhorrent color of the walls, the nondescript bedroom was furnished with only the barest of essentials. There were no pictures or decorations hanging on the walls nor were there any stray clothes lying about. If anything, the room looked barely lived in. Just where was he really? As he scrutinized every detail to find a clue as to who the bedroom belonged to, his eyes fell upon a small pile of shattered glass laying on the floor near the door. The green shards seemed to almost disappear into the brown murky liquid that pooled around it. Next to it, small puddles of a dark red color stained the tiled floor and left a trail from the opened door to somewhere outside the bedroom. The smell of licorice, roses, iron, and horseradish lingered heavily in the air. Judging from the smell and color alone, the brown puddle on the floor was definitely Dittany. And the red puddles…

Granger.

Ignoring the groans of protest from his aching body, Draco got off the warm comfortable bed and slowly made his way out of the room. He carefully avoided the sharp glass shards on the floor and stumbled out to what appeared to be a kitchen. It was bright day light and the windows next to the sink was open, letting fresh air in. However, there was no masking the smell of iron and blood. He looked around, disregarding the look of the room, and focused on the heap of clothing sitting on the floor.

"Granger?" He called out, his voice surprising even himself at how hoarse and weak it sounded.

He knew it was her. It couldn't be anyone else. But he couldn't help himself. The woman in front of him was seriously injured and while he had seen people in much worse conditions, he could not bear to look at the body and acknowledge that it was her. She was leaning against the kitchen counter, breathing ever so slowly as if every breath she took hurt. Her left arm hung from her shoulder at an odd angle and her arms and legs were missing some pieces of flesh. Blood poured from the hollowness of her skin. Stray burn marks colored her skin a fiery red. With her one good arm, Granger was slowly dripping Dittany on her wounds. But her shaking arm and constant moans of agony told him that it was more difficult than it really looked.

At his utterance of her name, she looked up from the floor and stared straight at him. There was no blame in her eyes. No anger, no hate, no anything. Granger has entered into the realm of apathy and she no longer cared if he was there to witness her pain or not. Without a word to him, she turned back to the matter at hand and concentrated on healing herself. Draco stood there and watched her. She was struggling with the task and each moan or groan of agony she made tore at his heart strings.

"Granger, I…"

Draco was at a loss. He didn't know what to say. Yet again, it was his fault. He had spazzed out and lost control of his magic. In order to save them both, she had no choice but to apparate them to her house and splinched herself badly along the way. It has probably been a long time since Granger apparated. He should say thank you. Or I'm sorry. He should say something. But the look in her eyes, that despair and agony, reminded him of that day back at Malfoy Manor and he clamped up. He didn't know what to say or do back then. He didn't know what to say or do now. He has not changed at all and the epiphany scared him.

"Leave," Granger whispered after a sharp yelp of pain caused by slightly moving her dislocated or possibly fractured shoulder.

Looking up, her eyes connected with his gaze and held. Even though her voice sounded like a command he should not disobey, her eyes seemed to say something completely different. Or maybe he was reading too much into it. She could be tearing up because of the agonizing pain of her wounds and not because she was silently begging him with her eyes to not leave her alone with his aunt again. He could not tell. It was all the same to him. Clenching his fists to keep it from trembling, Draco took a deep breath and stumbled towards her.

When he neared, he sat down on the floor next to Granger and grabbed the bottle of Dittany from her bloody hands. She did not resist him. They sat there on the kitchen floor in silence. The absence of any sound was broken occasionally when Granger groaned or yelped in pain but with the help of Dittany, new skin stretched over what had been open flesh as quickly as Draco could drench it in essence of Dittany. Halfway through the healing process, the pain of her wounds and loss of blood caused Granger to pass out. She had done the same back at Malfoy Manor after several bouts of his aunt's torture. But Draco took solace in the fact that this time around, he did something about it.

Hours after he left, Draco made a silent vow to never disclose the whereabouts of Hermione Granger. She had left the wizarding world with a reason, even if he didn't know the reason for it, and after everything he had done he owed it to her to keep her secret. Unfortunately for the both of them, the secret got out soon after.

_**AN:**__ Good morning! I am extremely sorry for the long wait. A week after I posted the first chapter, my computer crashed and I have been without a computer since. I just saved up enough money to buy a new one so on with the writing we go. I hope this long chapter makes up for the wait. I know there's a lot of punctuation and grammar mistakes (especially the tenses) but I tried my best. Lol. As always, please enjoy and review. Thanks!_


	3. Msaw Ætare Room 7

**Disclaimer: The following is a work of fan fiction based on the popular series Harry Potter created by the wonderful JK Rowling. No offense is intended towards JK Rowling or her work. However, this fan fiction is 100% written by me unless otherwise indicated.**

**CHAPTER** **3: MSAW ÆTARE** **ROOM # 7**

A rap on the door brought the twenty-two year old Hermione Granger from the pleasure she was indulging in. She let out a groan of frustration at having been interrupted and unraveled herself from the tangle of limbs. She already knew the person outside her bedroom door was her best friend since her first year at Hogwarts, without a doubt. She had always found him a tad bit annoying given his lack of tact, but ever since she left the wizarding world her annoyance with him grew. It did not help that the man has grown more and more over-protective of her by the day.

With the ceaseless loud pounding from the outside, she knew Harry's patience was growing thin and he was going to use his wand next to unlock her bedroom door. She did not want to leave the warmth of her bed nor the scantily clad man in her arms. However, her resolve vanished when the person outside the door shouted her name in utter frustration.

"I'll be right there, Harry." Hermione shouted out. "Go wait in the living room or something."

Cautiously, she smeared the fluid dripping from her lips and rushed into the adjacent bathroom to wash her face. Once finished, she dried her face with a cloth and glanced back at the man lying on her bed. Dark skinned with a toned body, the man was lying there with nothing but a sheer white blanket draping over his midsection. His legs were raised and spread to reveal a hint of hair and sexual desire. He was licking the fluid they both had took pleasure in drinking and was eyeing her with such wanton lust that she wondered if Harry had enough patience to wait a few more hours for her.

Standing there at the threshold of her bathroom door, she wondered if the guy ever told her his name. He probably did. After he had bought her a few drinks and they exchanged a few dozen conversations in a drunken stupor, she had invited him over to her place. Since then, they have been indulging in several bouts of physical pleasure. Considering how many activities they had to cover in the span of twelve hours, she wouldn't feel bad if she somehow forgot his name.

Shaking her head to get rid of her physical desires, Hermione tore her eyes from the sight and proceeded to make herself decent. Grabbing a shirt and a pair of shorts from her dresser, she quickly put it in along with a silk robe to further cover herself. Her night clothes were rather too sheer to greet Harry in. He would have a heart attack.

" _Je reviens tot de suite_." Hermione said to her one night stand lover and hurriedly walked out of the room, closing the door after her.

Like she had expected, Harry Potter was waiting for her on the other side looking rather confused, worried, and angry. She didn't expect anything less. Two years after her abrupt disappearance from the wizarding world, Hermione had sent Harry a letter to Grimmauld's Place explaining the reason for her disappearance and asking for his understanding in the matter. Although he had forgiven her for the sudden disappearance and lack of communication, Hermione knew he still had a grudge on the matter and did everything he could to show it whenever possible. Accompanying his grumpy manner was also an over the top urge to protect her as much as he could.

Given the circumstances, his worry was warranted but it still annoyed her. Now that he knew her whereabouts, particularly her place of residence and employment, he constantly popped by from bloody England to check on her in case anything ever happened. Securing an unlimited amount of international portkeys wasn't hard for the savior of the wizarding world.

"Harry," she said, slowly leading her friend to the living room as to not disturb her lover in her bedroom. It would not do for the innocent muggle to learn the ways of witchcraft now, would it? "I thought I told you to wait in the living room."

"And I thought I told you to floo me whenever you needed help." Harry replied. His stern look did nothing to scare her and she rolled her eyes. "Do you even know how serious this is?"

"I don't even know what you're going on about, Harry." She retorted.

She sat down on one of the armchairs and gestured for her friend to sit down. The man let out a great sigh and plopped down on the seat next to her. After nudging on his glasses, Harry took out a piece of paper from the inside of his jacket's pocket and gave it to her.

"Tell me what this is about." Harry said angrily before shoving a crumpled piece of newspaper into her hand.

Hermione gave her best friend a look of utter exasperation and turned her attention to the newspaper article. A picture of an interior of a library, which she quickly realized was the National Library of France, was framed by a lengthy article about the recent spotting of one Hermione Granger. The article contained quite an extensive list of rather inaccurate and false spottings of her person. She almost rolled her eyes at The Daily Prophet's incompetence. The thing that caught her eye, however, was the picture.

In it, she was sitting at a desk reading and writing something in her notebooks. In the far right hand corner, one could spot Draco Malfoy staring at her. His distinctive white blonde hair and the intense stare he held of her person gave away his features. Of course, Hermione knew that he was there. She had the scars to prove that his presence in the muggle library was not just a figment of her own imagination. But seeing it in person was a different matter entirely. The pensive, almost pained look on Malfoy's face oddly resonated with her. She knew what he was feeling and what he was searching for just by looking at the picture and the realization of his desire for forgiveness hurt much more than the scars he inflicted upon her.

Hermione looked up to stare into her best friend's dark green eyes. She didn't have to see the look in his eyes to know Harry was concerned. If he continued to fret like Molly, his hair undoubtedly will turn white sooner rather than later. Despite pitying him for being so concerned for her, Hermione couldn't help but blame him for his own state of worry. She already dealt with the matter as best as she could so she saw no reason for him to interrogate her any further. Besides, what is there to say? Malfoy found himself in Muggle France, they got angry, sparks flew, and a library collapsed on itself because of their chemistry? If Harry wasn't already so tense, she would have laughed out loud.

"So you found out then," Hermione said.

Harry spluttered incoherently for a few seconds.

"Of course I found out! That's bloody Draco Malfoy in that picture. And the French Aurors brought him in for questioning just yesterday for the collapse of their library. Why didn't you tell me?"

"I didn't think it was necessary."

"Not necessary? With your magic the way it is now, it's not safe for a god damn Death Eater to be stalking you Hermione."

"Might I remind you I'm not safe anywhere?" Hermione could tell Harry wanted to retort but she continued to speak. "Look, he unknowingly spotted me in France an—"

"_Muggle_ France," hissed Harry.

"Yes, Muggle France." Hermione glared at her friend and he in turn glared back at her. "We exchanged some very heated words, he lost control of his powers, and before we knew it the library got destroyed. Everyone got out alright, didn't they? I know they did."

"You could have been hurt. You could have been killed!" Harry hissed, looking quite livid.

Hermione, on the other hand, was the perfect picture of nonchalant ease.

"But I wasn't."

Hermione and Harry exchanged a look at her immediate retort and she quickly averted her eyes. The unspoken questions he had in his eyes were answered by her refusal to look more than a few seconds into his gaze. Harry's jaw clenched and unclenched and the hands on his knees turned into clenched fists. Silence fell over the duo. A minute later, Harry rose from his seat and brushed some invisible lint from his coat. He cleared his throat and looked down at his friend.

"You're coming back to Britain."

Hermione looked up, her blank face unchanged at the command.

"And why do you think I need to do so?" She asked calmly.

"You need protection, Hermione, and living in the muggle world is not safe. I've told you this many times before. You have to listen to me."

As he continued his rant about her personal safety and doing the logical thing, Harry started to pace back and forth in front of her. They've been over this before, of course. When Hermione reached out to Harry after settling down in France, he argued that she should stay in the wizarding world. Yes the security isn't as tight as the British Ministry, but he was sure the security in the French wizarding world was much more adequate than living in the Muggle world given what she would have to deal with.

She wasn't so sure she cared to argue with him yet again. She wasn't sure she cared at all. What was the point? They've hashed and re-hashed the same topic over and over again. If Harry wasn't tired of it, she was. At this point, she didn't care what he had to say. His opinion used to matter. In a way, it still did but it mattered less now. He knew that. She knew that. There was no denying it.

Hermione was smart enough to know that all the symptoms she's been experiencing and her current state of mind meant she was battling with depression and PTSD. It was completely normal given her experiences and she tried all the methods she could to evade the depression. But short of an eternal happiness potion (which currently didn't exist), there was really nothing she could do to prevent the mental illness from creeping back. That was a reason why she left. She didn't want her friends to know about it. She didn't want to look at their pitying eyes. She wouldn't be able to stand it. At least, if she's away from them, she wouldn't have to deal with them.

But those were just excuses and she knew it. Just like her excuses for the way her life turned out. She had blamed Malfoy and he did nothing wrong. She was just using him as an excuse.

"Okay."

"—honestly think you would like it there an-wait what?" Harry stopped his pacing and turned to look at her.

Hermione smiled at his cluelessness.

"I said okay."

"But…" Harry looked at her skeptically, his eyes narrowed. "Why?"

"You wanted me to go back so I'm going. What, am I not allowed to say yes?"

"Of course you are," he replied. "I just didn't expect you to agree so… quickly."

Their conversation was interrupted when Hermione's bedroom door cracked open and her lover came tottering to the living room looking for her. The lad was wearing nothing but a towel over his crotch and didn't seem at all embarrassed when he caught sight of Harry. Instead, he waved a hand at Harry and muttered something in French to Hermione before leaving to go back to the bedroom. Harry had to wince and quickly turn away when the French man flashed his full white buttocks at him as he turned to leave. Hermione laughed at the exchange.

"I already agreed to go home with you Harry." She said, still giggling a little. "Leave now so I can go enjoy some shagging before you drag me back to dismal London."

"Alright, alright. I'll come pick you up in three days."

"I'll be ready."

With that answer, Harry turned on the spot and left. The smile he gave her was the brightest she had seen in a long time.

* * *

Diagon Alley was different than she remembered. When she had left it three years prior, the place was pretty much deserted. With the exceptions of new Dark Arts stores popping up now and again, other stores from her vivid childhood were gone. Flourish and Blotts was no more. Ollivander's was in shambles. Of course, the Weasley twins' shop was open for a little bit. But even the joke shop closed down after some time. Diagon Alley was essentially a wasteland of shattered memories when she left.

But not anymore.

Now, three years later, the place was once again flourishing after a devastating war. The citizens of the British wizarding world were slowly picking up the pieces and mending what was left. A new wand shop opened up. If she remembered it correctly, the name was Alexandria. Flourish and Blott's owners re-opened their bookstore once again and business was booming with the re-opening of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Everything seemed to be operating like normal. It was like the war never happened. But everyone knew better. Hermione Granger knew better.

It was the first time she left Grimmauld Place since arriving in London two weeks ago.

At first, she told herself she needed to stay and catch up with her dear friends. When that was done and over with, she told herself she had to catch up with her old professors and Order members and attend parties thrown in her honor. But two weeks passed and even someone as daft as Ron knew she was making up excuses for staying in. So when she woke up this morning, she was determined to get out of the house. For her protection, Harry required her to have an escort each time she left the house. She requested no such person when she left and so here she was in the middle of Diagon Alley completely overwhelmed by the sheer number of witches and wizards and magic running amok.

It was late August. Parents, of magic and muggle origins, were accompanying their sons and daughters to shop for school supplies. Business men and women were walking about, running errands and doing everything they could for their livelihood. And what about her? With her straightened hair, bottle-coked glasses, and Trelawney-esque attire for disguise purposes, what about her? Just what was she doing?

She swore away from all of this when she left three years ago. She swore that she would never come back because the wizarding world disappointed her more so than the Muggle world ever did. Why was she back? Yes, she did miss it. She missed the convenience of apparating places or using port keys, she missed making potions and reading historical wizarding books, and she missed using magic most of all. But was it worth it? After everything she's been through, was it worth it to go back to all of this?

"Hermione Granger?" A voice bellowed out. "Is that you, Hermione Granger?"

Hermione immediately snapped her head to the source of the voice and recognized the person as someone who had worked at Flourish and Blotts. She had frequented the bookstore so much that the employees knew her name and face. She tensed as the name caught on and whispers began growing louder like ripples in a pond after a leaf falls. She tried to shake her head and say no but realized belated it was too late. People were staring at her now, whispering incessantly. They were talking to her, trying to ask her for autographs, some outright shoving papers and pens to her face, and others were asking her where she has been the last three years. Here she was, a war heroine in her own right, and she was afraid of the mob clearly forming around her. So she did something a sane, logical person would do in that situation.

She ran.

Some of the mob members followed her, chasing and shouting and asking her for things she could not give them. She wondered why they were even following her to begin with but eventually the crowd dissipated and she was left just running for the sake of running. If she ran, no one would recognize her. If she ran, she could run away from all the things chasing after her. If she ran, she didn't have to stop and think about the consequences. She didn't stop until she reached the entrance of the ever so popular Knockturn Alley. Out of breath, she leaned against the wall of a nearby building to adjust her attire.

"What are you doing here?"

Hermione let out an annoyed groan. Honestly, why can't people just accept a disguise as a disguise and leave her alone? Rolling her eyes, she turned and was about to shout profanities at the person when she recognized the man's blonde hair and distinctive black on black on black attire. He was standing at the steps leading to the entrance of the building next to her with an ornate key in his hand. His dark cloak billowed behind him.

"I could ask the same thing of you," Hermione replied. She pushed herself off the wall she was leaning on and took several steps forward. "Last I heard you were detained."

"No thanks to you," he said. He then shrugged his shoulders nonchalantly. "I got out."

"No thanks to Harry, I'm sure."

After clearing things with Harry, her friend had agreed to talk to the French Ministry to have Malfoy released. Yes, Malfoy had to pay a lot of money for the damages incurred but she was sure he had enough money to last him at least three centuries.

"What about you? I thought you were being a bookworm in France." He raised an eyebrow at her.

"Someone blew up their new library." Hermione retorted. "Do you blame me for coming back?"

He looked at her for a moment as if he wasn't sure he wanted to answer the question. But then he shrugged.

"I don't know why you left. Hogwarts has the best library in all of Europe."

"And the strictest librarian in the world," Hermione pointed out.

The two of them paused to think about her statement and then both started chuckling.

"You are right about that." Malfoy inserted the key into the door and quickly unlocked the entrance to the building he was keen on entering before he saw Hermione. He paused on the threshold of the establishment and turned to her, jerking his head towards the entrance. "Want to come in?"

She looked at him warily and then raised her eyes to look at the sign hanging above them. It said Msaw Ætare and nothing more.

"What in the world is this place?"

"It's an inn," was all Malfoy said before he entered the building.

It took Hermione all but several seconds of staring into the dark abyss that was Knockturn Alley and blinding brightness of Diagon Alley to decide. She walked up the stairs to the inn and entered the place, noticing that Malfoy had left the door ajar for her. She closed the door after her and looked around Msaw Ætare. Despite the name and location of the inn, it didn't look half bad. Torch lights lighted the wooden walls and animal carcasses were hanging for all to see. That alone probably scared away a bunch of people. There were some shady characters loitering about near the bar/lobby desk but apart from those discrepancies listed above, it looked like a regular inn.

"Berdon," Malfoy called down on his way up the winding wooden staircases on the far right of the inn.

She glanced at his direction and saw his eyes on her. He nodded in acknowledgement.

"Yes, Mr. Malfoy?" Berdon, the man behind the bar/lobby desk, answered without looking up. He was busy serving a patron a glass of smoking purple liquor.

"Two portions of today's lunch specials and some drinks to room number 7 please."

"Right away sir."

With Berdon's affirmation, Malfoy glanced at Hermione and continued his walk up the stairs. Hermione stared at the lobby desk for a few moments before following him. He was not in the hallway of the first floor when she arrived, but she already knew where to go. After all, Msaw Ætare room number 7 was the only one on the first floor with the door ajar. The room was smaller than she expected it to be. Somehow, she associated Malfoy with such grandness that the image of him renting a small room with nothing but a bed, a small armchair, two chairs, and a bar cart filled with an assortment of drinks (alcoholic or otherwise) was unimaginable.

But there he was standing the middle of the room, taking off his dark cloak to reveal a pair of black slacks and shirt that looked like it was made from the same material as the cloak itself. The initial recovery he made when they saw each other three years prior was nothing to the recovery he made since. His hair was longer and shinier, reminiscent of his father's long locks, and he looked to be in overall great health. Additionally, the way he carried himself no longer reminded her of sheer arrogance. Yes, the arrogance was still there but it was toned down and she liked the development. As she watched, Malfoy rolled up the sleeves of his shirt to reveal his toned muscular forearms and approached the bar cart. He started pouring himself a drink when she came into the room and closed the door behind her.

"What are you drinking?" Hermione asked as she took off the three layers of scarves on her person.

"Scotch," Malfoy replied before giving her a shot glass of said liquor.

She glanced at the liquor, frowning at the cold icy flakes slowly forming on the surface of the liquid.

"Why is it… freezing as I speak?"

"It's snow scotch."

"What?" She asked, scandalized.

She never heard of such a thing before and her confusion showed.

"It's like Firewhiskey." Malfoy explained, walking over to the bed and sitting on the edge of it. Once he was settled, he looked at her. "Except instead of causing fire to your insides, snow scotch adds a cooling sensation that helps with upset stomach and similar ailments. It's good for hot summer days."

"It'll be September soon." Hermione reminded him.

Holding her freezing shot of liquor in her hand, she walked over to the armchair opposite of the bed and made herself comfortable.

"Did I say one shouldn't drink it in the fall?"

Hermione looked at the shot glass in her hand. The liquor at the bottom looked like it was still in its liquid state, but the top surface layer of it already froze. The shot glass was basically a slowly freezing lake. It was a weird sight to behold. Firewhiskey looked exactly like whiskey and had no effects like flaming fire dancing on the surface. This drink on the other hand… Oh fuck it. Taking a deep breath and bracing herself, Hermione tipped the shot glass to her mouth and swallowed it all in one gulp. She shuddered at the cold sensation running through her. It was the oddest feeling ever.

"One shouldn't drink this abomination at all." Hermione said, making a face. The freezing portion of the liquor was, no doubt, slowly melting inside of her. But even as she said this, she could feel the cold drink spreading through her body and soothing her aching, tensed muscles. "Hey, this is actually pretty good."

"Of course it is," Malfoy remarked offhandedly.

She couldn't help but roll her eyes at his answer.

"Do you come here often?" She asked, looking around the scarcely decorated room.

Apart from a pile of freshly laundered clothes on the dresser near the window, the place barely looked lived in. But Malfoy looked like he was familiar with Berdon as well as the layout of the building. Plus, the laundered clothes were all in black so they must be his clothes.

"No, I am only here when there is business I need to attend to in Diagon Alley." Malfoy gazed around the room. "It's a good place to avoid people, unsavory, unwanted, or otherwise."

A peaceful silence fell between them, broken only once or twice by the sounds of the bustling streets outside. From where she sat, she could see the looming roof of Gringotts Bank in the horizon.

"How does it feel?" Malfoy asked. His voice made her turn to look at him. He was still nursing his third shot of snow scotch. At her confused look, he re-worded his question. "How does it feel to be back?"

Hermione took a moment to think about it, rubbing her fingers on the shot glass in her hand just to distract herself.

"It's… different. Nothing is the same anymore."

He got up from the bed and walked over the bar cart.

"Why are you back, Granger?"

"Why can't I be?"

"You were pretty adamant on staying in France."

"Well someone tracked me down, destroyed a library, and made sure my location was compromised." Hermione said with a bit of vehemence to her voice. Malfoy raised an eyebrow, but said nothing as he poured another shot glass of snow scotch. When he was finished, he handed the shot glass to her. She gratefully took it and downed the liquor in one go. "I had nowhere else to go but…" Hermione paused, frowning at her next choice of words. "Home, I guess."

"I didn't mean to expo—"

"I know."

"How are you feeling?" He paused. He looked as uncomfortable as he was making her at his show of concern. Hermione stared at him warily. "It's been a while since we last saw each other, but I hope you're doing alright. Did your injuries heal well? Did they leave any scars?"

"We all have scars, Malfoy." Hermione replied sadly, absentmindedly rubbing her left forearm where Bellatrix Lestrange's 'mudblood' scar still ached sometimes.

"I… I know."

Malfoy's eyes stared at her arm for a few seconds before looking away, the tell-tale signs of haunting memories etching his face with frowning lines. He poured himself another glass and finished it before clearing his throat. He would have made for a menacing picture standing several feet away looming over her like that with his dark attire, tainted history, and the wand sticking out from his pants' pocket. But there was a faint blush to his pale white cheeks, undoubtedly from drinking several shots of scotch consecutively before 10 a.m., and somehow the thought of him getting tipsy was a lot more endearing and less menacing. He was looking at her as if he had something dire he needed to get out. But judging from the way he was stalling, she could tell he didn't know how to start.

"Whatever you have to say Malfoy, spit it out already." Hermione said. She was slightly tired of looking at the pained troubled look on his face. "Say what you have to say and pour me another scotch."

It took Malfoy another minute before he spoke.

"I want to say I am sorry. I shouldn't have… I shouldn't have lost control like that back in France. I don't know what came over me. It was like I.." He closed his eyes for a moment and opened them again. He looked at her and gave a wry but solemn smile. "It was like I was reliving the worst memories of my life and hearing you say what you did, I just... snapped. I'm sorry for injuring you that day. For inflicting pain on you, for not…"

Malfoy stopped talking then. Hermione watched him carefully as his jaw started clenching and his body tensing up. Without looking at her, he poured two more shots of scotch and finished one of them immediately. When he exhaled, a puff of cold air came out as a testament of how cold snow scotch was. He grabbed the other one and handed it to her. She took the offered drink but did not drink it right away.

"You don't have to do this, you know." Hermione said.

"I do," he replied back. "I need to."

"You did what you had to do." It was Hermione's turn to lower her eyes and take a drink, ashamed of what she had said on that day several weeks ago. Fear and anger had captured her heart and she in turn lashed out at the poor boy. Although a lot of people would say Malfoy deserved it but she, who got a firsthand account of his predicament, knew better. Hermione let out a silent sigh. What was happening to her? Why was she spiraling down dark path of mistakes? "I shouldn't have blamed you. No matter what happened, it was not your fault. You couldn't have… You were a child."

"That doesn't make it right." Malfoy said, lowering in volume slightly to hide the crack in his voice. Wanting to give him privacy for his show of weakness, she focused her eyes on the shot glass in her hand and waited for him to speak again. "It wasn't right to do what I did. It wasn't right for me to have insulted you and your blood time and time again, wishing you attacked or… or dead. I was wrong about a lot of things, I realize that now. But I was also wrong about you. I'm _so_ sorry, Hermione."

Hermione didn't know what the catalyst was. Perhaps it was the way he was asking for forgiveness that caused tears to form. Or perhaps it was the way he spoke in that quiet, solemn voice that called for the heart ache in her chest. But as he continued to talk, Hermione's vision blurred and tears started to stream down her face in rivulets. Malfoy's apology invoked so many happy and painful memories for her that she couldn't help but be overwhelmed by everything. The possibilities of what things could have been, what things should have been, and what already happened weighed her tears down and they just continued to fall. And when he said her name—not mudblood or Granger but _Hermione_— she couldn't help but let out a strangled cry.

Before she knew what she was doing, Hermione pushed her empty shot glass off her lap and walked towards Malfoy. The shot glass fell to the floor with a sharp cracking thud as she pulled him into a bone crushing hug that Molly Weasley would be proud of. Almost immediately, Malfoy's body tensed and he turned rigid in her arms. She could tell he didn't expect the hug at all and was unsure of how to proceed. His arms wavered just inches behind her back, the heat of his body coming off in waves. Then after some hesitation, Malfoy's arms settled on the expanse of her back and he too embraced her for all he was worth. His head came down to rest on her right shoulder and the two of them lingered there. The unspoken words that needed to be said were no longer necessary with the gesture.

The moment they shared was broken when, out of the blue, someone knocked on the door. Malfoy and Hermione pulled apart and looked at each other. They were a sight to behold, eyes rimmed red, faces tinged with unnaturally crimson colors, and they both looked overall miserable. Then, as if reading each other's thoughts, the two of them burst out into a round of delirious laughter. There they were, enemies ever since they started school many years ago, crying their eyes out (Hermione more so than Malfoy) over things they could not change. It was unexpected of course, but the conversation they just had was a much needed and belated form of camaraderie.

At the second round of knocks, Malfoy gently pulled himself away from Hermione and went to open the door. Hermione turned away and picked up the shot glass she dropped on the floor. There was a crack on the side and a chip on the rim but she could care less. He walked over and put down two dishes of what appears to be beef wellingtons with mashed potatoes, gravy, and a side of steamed snow peas on the magically extending bar cart. She looked at the dishes with a frown. They looked to be too hearty for a lunch. But then again, they've been drinking scotch since they arrived so eating something hearty shouldn't be too bad.

Pulling the two chairs up right next to the bar cart, Malfoy gestured for Hermione to take a seat and plopped down on his chair. Hermione grabbed two sets of knives and forks since they were on her side of the bar cart and handed one pair to Draco. Yes, he was Draco now. After sharing a heart to heart conversation over cold ass scotch and even a small little hug, Malfoy was no longer a valid form of address for the blond man in front of her. After all, that was not his name. Malfoy was an identity he was given from his forebears and signified all of the pureblood ideologies that were ingrained in him from the moment he was born. But that's not him. Little by little, he had strayed away from the perfect pureblood mold of an heir and became his own person. He was a Malfoy, yes. But he was also Draco and that's the name she was going to call him now.

"What… What is that?" He asked all of a sudden.

Hermione paused in cutting her beef wellington and looked up. Draco had also paused in his task of eating and was looking at her now with an unidentifiable look on his face. When he noticed he had her attention, he jerked his head towards her hands. She looked down and didn't see anything amiss. Her beef wellington was medium rare and there was nothing on her dish that would warrant a question.

But then she noticed it. At the prospect of eating, she had carelessly rolled up the sleeves of her shirt and had exposed deep jagged scars on her wrists. She had meant to cover them up with makeup, but she had been in a rush to leave Grimmauld's Place before Harry came back that she forgot all about them. For a moment, she wondered if she should lie to him. Tell him Crookshanks scratched her wrists to pieces and left big linear scars. That was pretty believable, considering Crookshanks' history of violence. But for some reason, she couldn't bring herself to do so.

"They're scars," Hermione said, pulling her sleeves down to cover them up.

Draco opened his mouth to say something to her, but then stopped himself. Instead, he slowly put down his dining utensils and slumped back against his chair. The calm, collected Draco that had happily laughed with her moments ago was gone. Replacing him was an angsty looking Malfoy who looked like he could kill someone with the anger in his scowl.

"Why?" He drawled.

"You know why," Hermione replied petulantly.

"No, I do not know why." The hint of turmoil sparking in his eyes told her everything she needed to know. Even if he denied it, they both knew he understood what she was talking about. What she had done and what led her to it. Of course he did. The realization made her heart ache just a little more for him. "Why would you, the smartest witch of your age, do something so idiotic? Without you, Harry Potter would have died. Bellatrix would have recognized him immediately if it wasn't for your stunner. You, with your intellect and cool mind, helped save the wizarding world. Surely after all that, you would be happy? You have… You have _everything_."

Hermione slowly shook her head.

"Not everything."

"What more could you possibly want?" Draco shouted, suddenly getting up out of his chair in a fit of frustration. As he continued to speak, he paced back and forth in front of Hermione as if he was restless and pacing was the only thing that helped. "You were on the right side, Hermione. The _winning_ side. What could possibly make you want to hurt yourself like that?"

"That's not how this works."

"You're right, it's not. You don't know what it's like for people like me, people who supported the evil side and lost. The damages we took, the taunts and sneers we face every single day. Do you think you have it worse than me right now? I was arrested several times for things I didn't do. The case had absolutely no connection to me whatsoever, but I still got arrested for it because I was a Death Eater once during that foolish period of my life. What makes you think you can cut yourself open like that? What right do you have?"

"Stop it!" Hermione slammed her fists on the bar cart, rattling the dishes and bottles on top of it, and pushed herself out of her chair. Draco stopped his pacing and turned to face her, pushing the bar cart away as he stepped closer to the woman. "You think your life is hard? What you're going through is nothing. I was called a mudblood by people like you for years! I was a little girl who just wanted to be accepted and people like you tore me down over and over again. Do you think that doesn't hurt? Where do you think I got my perfectionist know it all image from?"

"Well that's just it, isn't it? You proved them wrong. You proved that you belonged here. You have nothing to worry about and nothing to fear. You of all people should be happy to be alive, to be free of all injustices, to be what you want to be. And yet, what are you saying? You want to cut yourself? You want to die?" Draco let out a derisive scoff. "Do you know how preposterous that sounds? You have no right. None! You won the war, Granger!"

"But I lost the battle!" She hissed back vehemently. Hermione forcefully grabbed the lapel of Draco's shirt and pulled him so close to her that she could feel his hot breath on her face. He laid his hand on her sides to keep his balance. Her grip on his shirt tightened as their eyes locked. "I did the best I could with everything I had but I still lost the battle. You shouldn't judge me for it, Malfoy. Especially when _you_ do it too."

With that, Hermione pushed Draco away from her and turned away. She busied herself with pouring two shots of snow scotch, slamming everything and anything her hands touched rather loudly.

"Granger," Draco called behind her. She ignored him, opting to finish her two shots and letting the coolness of the scotch temper the fire in her belly. "Granger."

"What?" She growled, turning to glare at him.

He looked at her for a moment, debating whether to go through with whatever he was planning, and slowly pulled up the sleeve of his shirt. The Dark Mark stood against his forearm, intimidating as always but not moving like it used to.

"I'll show you mine if you show me yours." He said.

Hermione approached Draco and looked down at the Dark Mark on his forearm, forehead wrinkling in distaste. Then a second later, she pulled up the sleeve of her own shirt and gestured towards the 'mudblood' scar that decorated her forearm. Since the incident with Bellatrix Lestrange, the scar never quite healed like she wanted it to. Unlike the smoothness of Draco's Dark Mark, the skin on her arm was jagged and scabbed even after three years. Scattered among the scar inflicted by Bellatrix was a score of cuts inflicted by none other than Hermione herself during fits of anger and pain. Somehow, Hermione had come to associate getting rid of pain with more pain—pain that she could control. It was always about the control.

Draco pulled his arm away and pulled down his sleeve, snapping Hermione out of her reverie. She watched in silence as he pulled his black shirt up and off his shoulders and threw it on the floor besides him. The scars that etched his body were immediately revealed to her and instead of gasping at the horror of it, she could only watch on. His body, toned but pale in the dim lights of the bedroom, seemed pristine and clean. But his shoulders were decorated with scars and she didn't have to ask him to turn around to know that the scars ran down his back in rivulets.

"Why?" She found herself asking, staring at his body in a slight daze. "Why would you do that?"

"You know why," he replied back tauntingly.

Hermione nodded, understanding what he was trying to say by not saying anything. Instead of answering his sarcastic retort, Hermione reached behind her and unzipped her dress letting it fall in a pile around her. There standing before him in just a bra and panties, Hermione felt no shame. Perhaps if it was Harry or Ron or Ginny who stood before her, she would have felt some sort of remorse or shame. After all, the cutting scars on her thighs and stomach were hard to look at and harder still to explain. But Draco understood. He knew why.

"We're not so different after all." Hermione whispered.

Draco pulled his eyes from her scars and looked at her with a sad smile on his face.

"No," he said. "I guess not."

Draco Malfoy and Hermione Granger proceeded to have a quiet lunch after that friendly conversation about winning wars and losing battles, not exchanging even one single word to each other as they enjoyed dishes made Msaw Ætare's finest chef in their pants and underwear. When she left an hour later after Harry's insistent Patronus found her, Malfoy had helped her put on her dress and wrapped the various scarves around her neck for warmth. Neither of them remarked about the significance of the gesture, but neither of them forgot it.


End file.
